


Hotel Rooms & Headlights

by genee



Category: Actor RPF, Music RPF, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-09
Updated: 2006-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Will you still find me if I leave you here beside this road?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotel Rooms & Headlights

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the slashfic25 prompt 'strangers', with thanks to without_me for the spot on beta action. Title from Nanci Griffith's song, _These Days In An Open Book_ , which is also the song Nick's singing the first time they meet. :)

Rosenbaum smirks, says, "Gotta pay the bills, baby," and Chris closes his eyes for a second, tries to recall if that sentence even started somewhere that made sense. He can't. Chris thinks it's a goddamn blessing Mike's easy on the ears, because he can't keep his mouth shut for more than a few seconds at a time and if he had a voice like, say, Padalecki, Chris would have had to hurt him long before now.

"The way it goes, right?" Mike says. "Not everyone, obviously, but with the merger and everything, you know how it is." Mike looks around the room, laughs and waves at someone Chris doesn't turn to see, tosses back the rest of his drink. _Fuckin' network parties_ , Chris thinks, but Mike's fingers are cool when they land on his shoulder, and Chris takes a deep breath. He doesn't even work for this network anymore. "There are more It Boys here tonight than you can shake a stick at, Chris my man, and speaking of, where the hell are ours?"

"Three guesses," Chris says as he taps the table, waits for the dealer to flip another card. _Nineteen_. He passes his fingers over the cards and tries to tune Rosenbaum out, tries not to roll his eyes. Blackjack. Fuckin' pussy game if he ever played one, but between Jensen fucking off with Jared and Tom, and the sweet burn of the network's bourbon in his throat, Chris knows better than to think finding a poker game is a good idea tonight. Besides, this table right here has sweet view of the bar, and at the bar there's a boy Chris knows he knows, big and blond and hot as hell, and Chris can't see his face, but he damn sure knows that body. He _knows_ he knows that body. There's something about the way he's leaning on the bar, though, the way he keeps his elbows close in, like he's tryin' not to take up too much space, and Chris thinks it's fucked six ways from Sunday because this boy? This boy was fuckin' _made_ to be spread out, Chris can see that much from here.

"Three guesses," Mike echoes, shaking his head. "Right, and the first two don't count."

Chris slides his chips into the circle, lays out a matching bet for the dealer, too, some wanna-be actor trying to break in, which he probably won't, but at least the kid can count, _twenty-one_ , and he's polite, murmuring _thank you_ as he pulls his winnings back against the rail, so maybe he's got a chance at something, after all. Maybe. Chris lets his own bet ride, wins the next three hands without paying much attention to anything but the guy at the bar, the way his hip juts out just right, the way he smiles when he finally turns his head and catches Chris looking, the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners, like Chris is the best thing he's seen all night.

And wouldn't that be a hot son of a bitch, because oh, _fuck yeah_ , Chris knows this boy, knows his eyes are blue and his skin is sweet like warm peaches, like honey, knows there's a spot down low on his back that's sweet and salty, too, and Chris can almost hear him now, gasping, breath caught in his throat, soft and high and all twisted up like those crappy hotel sheets, so sweet Chris couldn't have said no to him even if he'd wanted to, which he fuckin' well hadn't.

 _Thirteen_ , the dealer counts, and Chris taps his fingers on the felt without looking at the cards. _Twenty-three_.

Twenty-three.

 _Fuck._

Nick had been breathtaking at twenty-three. Backwater bar, fucked-up sparkles on his shirt and just smiling away at the house crowd, after-work regulars with no damn idea who he was. Nick's voice all road sore and raspy, tore up from a gig at the county fair the night before, and there he was, pickin' out an old Nanci Griffith tune on a rattyass guitar he couldn't play for shit, not really, not that Chris was anyone to talk, but fuck, the boy could _sing_.

 _Fuck._

 _Nick_.

Mike follows Chris's eyes, says, "So, a guy walks into a bar, stop me if you heard this one," and Chris laughs out loud, takes his chips off the table.

Mike says, "Anyone ever tell you you have a type?"

"Anyone ever tell you talk too much?"

"Well, _yeah_ ," Mike says, waving his hands, fingers spread wide. "Go, go. Go do whatever it is you do, I'll cover for you, man. No worries."

But Chris is already walking away, walking right up into Nick's space and good lord, if there's a reason why Nick's been standing here bumpin' fists with Chad Michael Murray of all goddamn people and tryin' to make himself smaller, Chris isn't sure he wants to know a thing about it.

"Nick fuckin' Carter," Chris says, grinning, and Nick's eyes flash neon blue. Chris leans back a little, looks him up and down and up again, slow and lethal and Nick smiles, every bit as bright as Chris remembers.

"Christian fuckin' Kane," Nick says, draping his arm over Chris's shoulder like it belongs there, and fuck if it doesn't feel like it does. "It's been a long time, dawg."

"Dawg?" Chris says, taking the drink from Nick's hand and finishing it. "Boy, it ain't been that damn long."

Nick laughs, runs his hands through the mess of his hair, and Chris's fingers curl into fists. "Let's go."

  
**.   .   .**   


Nick's not what he expected, but then again, he hadn't been expecting Nick at all. Not now, and not then, either.

Then: Five days in the middle of nowhere, Chris's truck waiting for parts at Bobby's Auto up on Main, block and half from the only bar in town and a lifetime away from LA; the next stop on Nick's tour, such as it was, eight days out, too much time between here and there, band sent on ahead and Chris and Nick with nothing to do but drink and fuck and write and get high.

Best fuckin' five days of that summer, no doubt about it.

Then: Sunlight slanting through shabby curtains, catching in Nick's hair and pooling on his skin, head bent, fingers curled around the edges of the headboard, big solid boy all spread out, and his ass, _god_ , his ass, so fucking perfect, the way he wanted it, the way he moaned when Chris fucked him slow and swore when Chris slammed in hard, all breathy and strung out. Chris couldn't fucking get enough, licking into him after, slicking the come off Nick's belly and fingering it back in, tonguing away the taste of latex until there was only Nick, hot and wet and coming apart like no one had ever bothered before, no one like Chris anyway, which is what Nick said later, before he sucked a bruise into Chris's hip on his way to a blow job that had curled Chris's toes, soft hair tickling his belly and Nick's big hands wrapped around his thighs, and Nick's mouth, fuck, Nick's mouth was almost as perfect as his ass. Almost. Nick had a goddamn gorgeous ass, though, so it probably wasn't a fair comparison.

 _Nobody like you, baby_ , Nick said, his fingers twisted in Chris's hair, and Chris had said, _Goddamn right about that_ , and kissed him hard, kissed him until he was breathing heavy again, until they both were, just them, no one else around.

Then: Chris had some killer weed leftover from before Steve took off on his own, some shit about needing time and finding his way, and maybe he was right about that, maybe, but it was neither here nor there because Nick had a decent stash of his own and far-off brothers he didn't want to talk about, and there was a pool out back, murky water and plastic chairs and it was the shittiest place he'd stayed in _years_ , but Nick made it look good, sprawled out like the golden boy he could have been, all long legs and sunglasses and bad tattoos, a guitar pick stuck between his teeth.

 _Mmmm, pretty boy_ , Chris murmured, and he barely recognized his own voice, barely recognized himself, half-draped over this boy he barely knew, laughing low and easy and licking lyrics into his skin. _Dance for me,_ he said later, and Nick did, bottle hanging from his fingers and one arm raised above his head, hips painting sunset colors everywhere and making Chris dizzy and hard, his dick rubbing against the back of his guitar, soft words and slow music and Nick's lazy smile all layered in between.

Then: A message from Bobby's at the front desk and Chris packed his bags and peeled Nick out of his clothes, kissed his way across the marks he'd left on Nick's skin, fucked him deep and slow until Nick moaned way up high in his throat and pulled Chris close, hot come splashing in between them, and maybe Chris had never really known how to say goodbye, and maybe he still didn't, but Chris could see the freckles on Nick's shoulders even with his eyes closed, could taste him when he swallowed, honeysweet and salty underneath, and he was leaving with come in his hair and kiss-swollen lips, and Chris figured that was saying something, even if it wasn't enough.

  
**.   .   .**   


Nick is bigger now, older, and somehow both more sure of himself and less, new ink and new scars and Chris has no idea what else, a hundred things, probably more, but he still sounds the same when he comes, all breathy moans and filthy curses. They've been fucking for three days straight and Chris hasn't answered his phone or checked his voicemail, hasn't done anything but fuck Nick and order take-out and smoke whatever weed was already in the house because Nick looks too damn good in his bed to bother with anything else, all worn out and sweat-soaked, skin flushed pink and gold, covered in come and lube and Chris's fingerprints, and tasting exactly like Chris remembers.

"Up with you, boy," Chris says, finally, pulling Nick out of bed. He blows Nick in the shower, two fingers buried in Nick's ass, slick and hot, wild, helpless spasms as he comes down Chris's throat. Chris would fuck him again right now if he could, Nick all soapy and wet and pressed up against the shower wall, legs splayed and arms stretched wide, and Chris hates that he has to file that image away for later. He focuses instead on Nick's dick in his mouth, softer now, heavy, and when Chris looks up Nick's eyes are closed and his mouth is open, and his fingers are twisted in Chris's hair.

The bathroom is steamy gray, mirror all fogged over and both of them dripping warm water on the floor. Chris says, "I wanna fuck you outside, see you come in the sun," and Nick leans in close and kisses him breathless, says, "Yeah, okay, like I'd say no to that. Is it even daytime, though?"

They fall asleep stretched out on Chris's back deck, sun-warm and fucked out and one of Chris's cats curled up at their feet. When Chris wakes up Nick and the cat are both gone and Steve's smoking what better not be Chris's last cigarette, leaning on the railing and shaking his head real slow.

"Bro, I do _not_ want to alarm you," Steve says, smiling as he looks over his shoulder, like he really needs to double check, "but I'm pretty sure there's a Backstreet Boy in your kitchen."

"Yeah?" Chris stretches, scrubs his hands across his face. He still smells like Nick, sexysweet and heated, and he does his best not to flick his tongue out and taste his fingers, see if he still tastes like Nick, too. "He look like he's fixin' to go anywhere soon?"

"Nah, man," Steve says, and Chris feels his jaw unclench, hears the soft pop as he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "He's feeding your cats and _making omelets_ , and you shoulda told me about this a long time ago."

"Nothin' to tell," Chris says, and there wasn't, not back then anyway. He steals Steve's cigarette and takes a long drag, tries not to think about Steve and Nick in his kitchen, talking while he slept. "So, there's coffee?"

Steve rolls his eyes and reaches out a hand to help him up, doesn't bother to pretend he's not looking. Chris wraps a towel around his waist and scratches at the dried come on his hip. Steve laughs, and when Chris looks up he stops just long enough to say, "So, he's a lot younger than you, huh?"

"Fuck off, now," Chris says, trying to scowl and failing. "I ain't all that old yet."

Steve just laughs some more and drapes his arm around Chris's shoulder, warm and close, his thumb ghosting over the bite marks low on Chris's throat. "Whatever, man. Put some damn clothes on and come eat. Your boy's makin' breakfast for me, too."  
   
   


\-- End --


End file.
